Episodes
by Blamnie
Summary: "She exists through episodes, a hundred different women all occupying the same 6 by 8 cell." Harley finds herself in the custody of Bruce Wayne
1. What's past is

Episodes

What's past is…

Prologue

Logic seemed hard to come by these days.

But in her world, one governed by the unpredictable beast of insanity, it was logic that finally won out.

Gordon had gone through a huge effort of making an example of her and just how serious he was when he turned up at the foot of Harley's hospital bed accompanied by no fewer than 11 armed police officers. He stood silently, reaching for her chart. The notes were extensive: Multiple breaks to her sternum along with five cracked ribs, a dislocated shoulder and a shattered left arm. This came along with extensive bruising and tissue damage down the entirety of her left leg.

Crime scene officials would later deduce that she had been flung from a speeding car, plummeting down a twelve foot verge beside the freeway, only to have her fall broken by the concrete beneath. Somebody didn't want her to walk away from this one.

To Gordon's surprise, his presence didn't cause much of reaction in the usually audacious young woman. She was barely even able to lift her head to acknowledge him. The morphine had temporarily drowned out her usual manic ferocity and rendered her pleasantly placid.

In all honesty, it was a welcome break from the screaming in her head.

Finally, the commissioner spoke up.

"A simple choice, Harleen." He chewed out the words. "My boys found six bodies down at the docks. All suspected murder. That's what? six life sentences, would you say?"

"And the rest."

Gordon lifted his head, a stern glaze cast over his eyes as he peered up from her chart, glaring over the rim of his glasses. "Now it's pretty clear your friend doesn't think particularly highly of you considering…" He offered his hand forward and gestured towards her body, which was more plaster than flesh at present. Harley shifted timidly under his scrutiny and withdrew further into her medicated calm.

"So, like I said, it's a simple choice. You want to jump on this grenade as well? Go down as an accomplice?"

"Cause if you want to, my boys are more than ready to take you down right now, whether you can stand on your own or not. They have no reservations about yanking you outta bed and dragging you back down to Arkham tonight." Two officers moved to either side of the bed to emphasize his point.

"Or, you could end this right now. Hand him in." She casts her gaze down, avoiding eye contact. Her brows knit together in grimace.

"This must be getting old for you now, Harleen." He continues, softer, after noticing the downward turn of her lips and the scowl on her face; akin to the tantrums of his teenage daughter. Gordon lowered himself down to meet her gaze head on. His features mimicking sympathy but his voice screaming apathy. "Just tell me where he is and you'll be granted immunity." He sighs, struggling to blurt out the last part.

"For life."

_Some choice._


	2. Veneer

**_A/N: I know the prologue wasn't much, so hopefully this chapter is a little more satisfying._**

**_Okay, so this story started as a oneshot idea but it kind of grew out of control as I was writing it. It should be roughly 6 chapters long but don't count on that because I love making work for myself._**

**_As always, reviews are more than welcome and thank you so much for reading._**

**_Disclaimer:- I don't own any of the characters, in fact I own nothing… nada _**

* * *

Veneer

Compliance is nothing but a short respite in the mind of the insane. By the time the arrests were made, Harley was already backing out of her statement, insisting that the information she slipped to Gordon was fake, that it was a trap. She began screaming when nobody would listen.

Harley was exempt from the trail which saw her beloved puddin' fall from savage grace. Instead she rattled the walls of her confinement, howling for hours on end. It was only her exhaustion which forced her to eventually give out in the end.

The next morning came too quickly as she's roughly jostled awake; the frigid metal of the cuffs being fastened around her wrists enough to jolt her into full consciousness. She's hoisted up by both her arms and dragged from her room. A shot of pain pulses throughout the left side of her body, her left arm still encased in a paster cast. She grits her teeth in discomfort as the glaring artificial light of the hallway burns into her vision.

Suddenly she turns again, becoming wild as she kicks, claws and screams in her restraints. Her foot jars out and strikes the kneecap of the guard to her right, bringing him down beside her. She lurches out, flashing her teeth in an attempt to bite him but is halted abruptly when someone yanks on the cast of her left arm. The squeal of a wounded animal forces itself past Harley's lips and she's immobilised in white-hot agony.

"Enough Harleen!" Jim Gordon's face came into view as he crouches down beside her, his grip still unrelenting on her arm.

"I lied! I lied! It was me! Ya let my puddin' go! Take me instead!" Her eyes frantic, scared even, as her sentences are delivered in between sobs, her words jumbling together.

"It's already done." Gordon sighs, rising back to his feet. "You're going home."

The man to her right brushes himself off and regains his balance. She's soon hoisted back up as the men continue to lead her forward.

"I ain't got a home!" She meekly protested, as aggression dwindled down to fear. Fear which grounded itself in her stomach, releasing the sting of bile in her throat which in turn caused her eyes to water. "He was my home."

Gordan says nothing, keeping his eyes fixed forward. A guard at the end of the hallway clocks their impending arrival and turns to unlatch a set of heavy duty doors. The room beyond them is reminiscent of a hospital waiting room, however lacking the heavy chemical odour. The furniture, walls and even the carpet were all coloured in drab hues of grey. There were no fixtures on the walls save for an off-white clock which hadn't read the correct time since it was first installed.

And there, standing in the dead centre of the soulless room was a familiar sight. A tall man, with a head of dark hair, broad shoulders and a strong jaw standing impatiently, dressed in an immaculate black suit that fits him in all the right places and screams wealth. His dark eyes cast downwards, distracted by the glaring light of his phone.

"Mr Wayne." Gordon broke the silence, catching the attention of the man, who immediately pockets his device and extends his hand out to the commissioner. His lips curve into a pleasant smile which fails to reach his eyes.

Behind them, Harley's demeanour instantly shifts, straightening up her back and puffing out her chest she jaunts out her chin and grins, tonguing her teeth. With tears still damp on her cheeks, a low hum of laughter forms in her throat. So it transpires that her long walk of freedom is to be lead by the same man who had taken so much pleasure in throwing her behind bars over and over again? The irony of this whole charade certainly wasn't lost on her.

Bruce's gaze finally moves from Gordon to Harley, their eyes meeting for what must be the thousandth time in the most unfamiliar of settings.

"Hi"

* * *

If there was one thing Bruce had discovered about Harley Quinn over the past few years it was that inconsistency ran deep within her. She exists through episodes, a hundred different women all occupying the same 6 by 8 cell. As a result, her moral compass swings in every direction but north. Every action is met by a randomized series of reactions. In the simplest of terms, she's unpredictable, dangerously so.

Moments ago she had been rendered almost childlike, sobbing and whining, yet now she stood with her back arched like a territorial tomcat. Both feet firmly on the floor and her hands still bound in restraints as she refused to take her eyes from Bruce, even when his attention turned from her to the paperwork Gordon presented to him.

"The terms of parole for one, Harleen Quinzel." The commissioner starts as he flips through the hefty file. "For the first six months of parole she will be under house arrest; and may only leave your premises when accompanied by either yourself or a guardian of your designation."

Harley resists the urge buck her leg out as some snivelling lackey bends down to attach an ankle monitor to her right leg. The thick black strap is a harsh contrast to her pale skin.

"This ain't exactly my colour." She hisses at the nameless employee as they unlock her handcuffs before quickly retreating away.

"A federal judge has granted her immunity from all cases involving the Joker in exchange for her assistance in the apprehension of him, however, she is not exempt from future cases. If she violates her parole or commit's any further offences, she will be arrested promptly." Gordon continues to flick through the paperwork, pointing out spaces which require a signature. He briefly looks back to the young women behind them as she drags her baby blues over them both.

Everything about Bruce Wayne is so calm, so cool, so… censored. And I makes her sick to her stomach. A man walking around in such a finely crafted human mask. A man who gets his thrills from the darkest of nights, from the bruises on his chest and the broken skin on his knuckles; not from hiding in stuffy conference rooms pretending to be interested in figures and finance. At least she embraced exactly what she was instead of cowering behind a persona of normality.

"If you don't mind me asking, Mr Wayne, I just can't get my head around why you would voluntarily take on something like this." Gordon starts as Bruce finishes signing the final sheet and clicking the pen closed before handing it back.

"Figured it's time I start giving back to the community." He answers, the same dead smile playing on his face as a formality rather than a friendly gesture.

"By aiding a woman who's terrorised this city for the past three years? The same woman who's defaced thousands of dollars worth of your own property?" Harley audibly scoffs behind him.

"Everyone deserves a second chance, commissioner." Bruce answers, his voice not deviating from the same default tone it always carried. Perfectly rehearsed. That composed veneer he wears refusing to faulter. "Anything else?"

"That's it, you're free to go." Gordon remained baffled, unsure as to whether the man was just plain witless or playing it that way. He gave up the fight; if Bruce Wayne was willing to take such an ill advised venture into philanthropy, who was he to stop him?

"Thank you." The billionaire replied, handing the file back over to Gordon before reaching to shake his hand. Bruce then turned back to Harley, looking right through her, his expression frustratingly stoic as he gestures towards the exit.

"The car's waiting."

His hand runs briefly down her arm before gripping her wrist. Her pale skin feels instantly flushed and raw in his grasp as he clutches her tighter than the cuffs ever had. She flashes him the smallest of smiles, relishing in the slip of his façade. He notices but fails to react. Her grin falls. Without a second to spare he pulls on her arm, leading her along beside him. There is haste in his steps and force in his grip, but Harley knows all too well that this is a mere fraction of his strength.

"Goodbye, commissioner." She hums as she glances back to see Gordon sighing heavily in surrender before removing his glasses and rubbing his eyes.

* * *

The interior of the car produced an odour of cleanliness which was enough to overwhelm the senses upon entry. The smell alone was nauseating to Harley. Well, that and the sunlight, which despite the tinted windows, seemed to be seeping in profusely. Her adverse reaction to the natural light causes her to question just how long she had spent in solitary confinement.

After a short exchange with his driver, Bruce clambers in after her. He is quick to set the black leather armrest as a barrier between them. His phone once again finds it's way into his palm. Harley turns away from him, glaring out of the window as the city passes by.

It only takes a few moments for her to tire of the sight, for her to crave some form of confrontation. She makes a big show of clearing her throat. A tiny growl of frustration escapes her lips as she turns to see Bruce's attention still solely focused on the device in his hand.

She tries again, louder. And again, until she nearly induces a coughing fit. It is only then that the man beside her chooses to acknowledge her cry for attention.

"Something you want to say?" His eyes still fixated on the phone.

"I know why _you_ came to pick me up." She sings, tilting her head and flicking her fingers across the armrest.

"Is that so?" Bruce finally lifts his head, giving Harley the reaction she desperately craved. She grins wildly in response.

"Yeah."

"Then tell me." He leans in a little, causing her eyes to widen. The beginnings of a power struggle are forming. She likes this game. She smiles wider, mirroring him by tilting herself closer.

"You're afraid that I'll go runnin' my mouth off, telling everybody just what it is you like to do in yer spare time." Her voice is considerably lower, barely above a whisper.

Both of them become still for a moment, unflinching, until Harley notices something she can't recognise in Bruce's dark eyes. She backs away and lets her expression drop, perplexed.

He inevitably turns away from her again and back to the phone in his hand.

"You're right, that's the reason." He speaks into the air ahead of him rather than to her.

"No I'm not." She protests, but it's futile, she's already lost him.

Before their exchange can progress, the car slows, gradually coming to a halt. Harley can only marvel at the grandeur of Wayne Manor and the extensive grounds surrounding her. It certainly was a much grander sight in daylight.

Through her window, she watches as an ageing man garbed in a suit not too dissimilar to Bruce's approaches them. His dark hair is peppered with whips of white and grey and his face is long and tired; but his features remain oddly charming and kind. The man reaches for the car door and offers his hand for Harley to take.

"Alfred will get you settled in. I've got to get back to work." Bruce speaks up as she climbs out of the car. She turns back to reply but realises that it's useless. Feeling lost, she slams the door shut and watches as the car drives away.

Alfred takes her hand gently into his palm as he escorts her to the house and it strikes a sorrowful chord when she can't actually remember the last time anyone showed her a genuine act of kindness.


	3. Victim

_**A/N: So chapter 2 took a lot longer than I expected to write, sorry for the delay.**_

_**Thanks so much to everyone who has faved/follwed the story, your support is like cake to me! x**_

_**Disclaimer: I don't own any of the characters, I just play with them till it hurts**_

_**XxXx**_

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Victim

He hesitates, just for the slightest of moments before he rattles his knuckles against the door again. This was the third time he had knocked and his already dram patience is wearing thin. Unsatisfied with the lack of a response from the other side; Bruce reaches down for the handle and violently jostles it, forcing the door open.

The guest room he had confined her to is barely recognisable as he stumbles into it. The dresser sits precariously on its side in the middle of the floor. The clothing which used to fill it now hangs over the picture frames mounted on the walls. Shards of glass remain scattered across the floor as Bruce finds that every mirror has been shattered.

She's on the bed when he turns to her; still dressed in pyjamas and sitting comfortably cross legged. Her eyes closed. Her face appears more ashen in colour, the lines beneath her eyes darker, more prominent. Her blonde tresses look matted and straw-like piled atop of her head in a bun. Bruce glares at her in a state of mild disbelief, his jaw slack, eyes wide and hand running through his hair.

"What's this?" He starts. She doesn't care to open her eyes as she responds to him.

"Meditation." She says nonchalantly. "It's an ancient Chinese-

"Harley!"

The harshness in his tone hits her like a bolt of lightning, searing through her body. Her eyes snap open as she stairs at him in brief awe. She's never heard Bruce address anyone with such vigour. No this, this was all Batman.

When he asks her a second time, the calmness returns to his voice, and it's enough for her to surrender the fight. She tiredly blinks before answering.

"I couldn't sleep." she meets his eyes with a look which pleads for sympathy, but he brushes her off.

"You can clean this up when we get back." Bruce turns away, reaching for the only article of clothing saved from her rampage. Fingering the pastel blue dress, he carefully folded it before walking over to place it in Harley's lap.

"You've got an appointment with you're new psychiatrist."

When she fails to acknowledge him, he bends down, coming face to face with her. He addresses her with in the same manner as mother would to a unruly child. "It's in the terms of your parole, you have to go."

Unsatisfied, Harley leans back, shifting her weight to her elbows as her mouth contorts into a grin. She slowly shakes her head from side to side.

Bruce leans in further, his voice flirting with irritation.

"Get dressed."

When she causally refuses again, he doesn't react, and it infuriates her to no end. She had grown so accustomed to being brutally punished for even the mildest of misdemeanours, that she simply couldn't comprehend this new world and its lack of violence.

Bruce leans back onto his feet and moves away, turning to the door again. It was enough to ignite Harley's short fuse. She scrunches up the dress. The muted colours of the fabric had begun to make her queasy. Ever since she had arrived it had felt as though he'd been stripping her away, piece by piece. He had purchased all of her new clothes and presented her with a mild wardrobe of pastel shades. Shades designed to promote calm. Not a smidge of red in sight. Without it she felt stinted, like she was being watered-down. A supporting player in her own life.

Without much thought, she threw the dress at Bruce, hitting him square between the shoulders. He turned on instinct, hearing her as she jumped from he bed and by the time her heels reached the floor, he was already picking the garment up and walking back in her direction.

Before he can even reach her, she's already swinging her clenched fist forward. He catches it effortlessly in his palm just as she thrusts her other one towards him. The dress falls from Bruce's grasp as he captures Harley's subsequent attack and swings her body around. She finds her back flush against his chest and her wrists crossed over her own. The man makes it all look so easy, like a well rehearsed dance.

Harley winces as she struggles in his grip, her damaged shoulder throbbing. She's suddenly brought back to a time when the two of them would be practising the same routine night after night; only in derelict surroundings wearing ridiculous costumes. This has been the way he's always fought her, not offensive or even defensive, but by constricting. He envelopes her, like a straight jacket, keeping her safe from herself.

Harley keeps struggling, thrusting herself in every direction to break his hold on her body. It is only when Bruce speaks that she stills.

"I'm not gonna fight you." His voice a low hum, tickling the back of her neck. There is a calmness in it which breaks her. He kills her fight. Her ferocity simmers to passiveness. There seems to be a scarcity of air in her lungs as her knees begin to buckle under her weight.

He sinks down with her, grounding her on the bedroom floor before releasing his hold. Harley bows her head as she leans forward, steadying herself on her palms. She wants to cry but hasn't the will to commit to it. A warmth creeps along her back as Bruce leans over her. His hand reaches for her jaw; taking her chin in between his fingers her tilts her head towards him.

His face is close now, and she can't help but drag her eyes across his features. Every line of his face, the stubble on his chin, the coldness in his glare are marvels to her. Her focus moves to his mouth.

"Get. Dressed" His voice lacks humour and echoes finality as he moves away from her. The skin of her back feels cooler in his absence. Harley refrains from turning to watch as he leaves the room as abruptly as he entered. Instead she wallows in the feeling of dissatisfaction as it dwells in the pit of her stomach. The same way it does after all of their encounters.

With frustration building to rage within her body again, all she wants to do is thrash and scream till her voice gives out. She urges to rip the furnishings from the walls, the tiles from the bathroom and decimate every measly thing he's brought for her.

Be she doesn't.

Instead she slips out of the pyjamas and pulls the dress over her head. Turning to catch her drab reflection in the window, she reaches for a hairbrush.

* * *

The backrest of the chair is too rigid, the fabric covering it sparing no comfort as the wooden frame underneath digs into Harley's shoulder blades. She leans back, eyes narrow, stubborn, as she watches the lips of the man before her dance beneath his heavy moustache. She hadn't caught his name, Dr. Miller, Morris, Moore…? She wasn't really listening.

His voice monotonous as he droned on, but she does catch something about impaired cognitive processing. Dr M seems to think that she's severed the connections people usually make in their mind when presented with foreign stimuli and in turn created new, abstract ones through years of 'conditioning'. After all, you can convince a scholar that the sky is green if you beat them hard and often enough. And of course, her mind was more susceptible to these failures in communication due to her underline tendencies to dabble in the realm of psychotic personality disorders.

She wasn't stupid, she had done the math. This was all stuff that she had already heard, mulled over and tried to fix herself. You can lead a horse to water but you can't aid it in differentiating between reality and fantasy when it comes to self-diagnosed schizophrenia.

Harley phases out while he continues talking and glances around at the small square room they sit in. His office, where everything fits in with the stereotypical vision of a shrink. Where nothing deviates from the norm. She briefly wonders if the man has ever had an original thought in his life.

Turning to her left, she sees Bruce, sharply dressed as usual and learning forward in his chair. His hands are clasped together and his elbows rest on his lap; his eyes never straying from Dr M. He mimics the role of a man in deep thought, carefully mulling over every bit of jargon that spills from the good doctor's mouth.

But she can tell by the way he purses his lips every so often and the way his fingers tap together that he is just as bored as she is.

When Harley turns back to the doctor, something out of place catches her eye. A slight glimmer from a snow globe sat atop of his desk amongst the high brow garbage. There was something so wonderfully childish about it that she had to reach forward and take it into her hands. There was a moment of silence when both men stopped to glance in her direction before continuing their conversation.

Harley moved the globe in her palm, running her fingers across the solid base and over the raised lettering of 'Gotham City'. Small replicas of the city's most distinctive buildings sit in its centre, submerged in water, surrounded by flakes of glitter. The idea that something so simple could bring joy to an innocent soul causes her cheeks to heat up and the corners of her lips to turn up in a small smile.

It's a feeling so alien to her that she becomes all of a sudden bewildered by it. It seemed only natural that she take the glass globe into her palm and slam it down onto the arm of her chair.

The glass shatters on impact, sending shards flying outwards and becoming embedded in her hand. Dr M jumps up from his seat, backing away from Harley as she arms herself with a large shard and points it in his direction. Blood flows freely from her open wounds down her forearm before congealing on the floor.

There is a sharp tug as Bruce is already beside her, taking both of her wrists into his hands and forcing her to face him. He turns to bark something she doesn't hear to the doctor as he vacates the office. She feels him jostle her limb until she allows the glass to drop from her grasp. She keeps her eyes on Bruce as he lowers himself to his knees in front of her, taking her bloodied hand into his own. There is a gentleness in the way he handles her, it's slow and careful as he inspects her palm.

Bruce hesitates for a moment before shuffling his shoulders out of his suit jacket, his hands leaving Harley's skin for just a moment as he frees his arms from the garment. A moment passes and she feels him take her hand again, the sensation is pleasantly numbing to her. The billionaire briefly looks back up to her face, failing to scold her for her outburst. Instead he offers her a look which is somehow akin to understanding.

Harley allows herself to be captivated by his expression, finding the briefest moment of refuge before her hand becomes engulfed in searing pain as he pulls a sizeable shard from her flesh. Blood quickly pools from the open wound, prompting Bruce to wrap the sleeve of his jacket tightly around her palm. She watches as the starchy fabric quickly darkens to carmine before flicking her eyes back to the man before her. They remain silent, unflinching. His hold never leaves hers.

Bruce's hand is already up, waving away the burly security guard as he busts through the office door moments later. The large man nods his head in acknowledgement before glaring at the young woman. He prepares himself for a subsequent outburst which never materialises. Instead she behaves, allowing herself to focus on the pain.

Pain is what used to bind her to The Joker, it used to be a feeling so intertwined with love that she didn't know the difference between the two. She was taught that people hit, kicked and maimed the ones they adored. But now she realises that the burning sensation in her palm, this pain, something she's grown so accustomed to, is a feeling she loathes. The gentle hold on her skin, the fingertips stroking circles on the back of her hand, that's affection.

* * *

Weeks later, they're dining like civilians in an up-scale restaurant in the side of town Harley isn't familiar with. A life amongst the privileged was never something within her reach. Heads turn as they make their entrance, most of them marvelling Bruce's celebrity, but a small minority displaying a look of recognition when confronted with Harley's face. It may have only been a few, but it was enough to knock her ever-fluctuating esteem down a few pegs. In defence, she began tugging on her dress, ensuring that the floor-skimming length covered the monitor strapped to her ankle.

The terms of Harley's probation required her to visit her psychiatrist twice a week. But given her initial meeting with Dr M, he seemed a little reluctant to continue their relationship. It was only when Bruce exchanged hushed words with the man that he agreed to see her again. The doctor was insistent that she was making progress, no matter how protracted it was. Harley wasn't so sure.

Her relationship with Bruce also seemed to dwindle, with the man only stepping in when he deemed absolutely necessary; when episodes of mania occurred. He was always fringing around her, never crossing the barriers he put in place to keep her at a distance.

She had grown accustomed to life at Wayne manor, to hearing of Bruce's nightlife via every media outlet in the city. To becoming familiar with a new race of wannabe super-villains who relentlessly attempted but never succeeded to get under the skin of Gotham's infamous Batman.

In daylight, they played mundane, dining across from one another in a fancy restaurant. They were never going to be ordinary, but it was something Bruce strives for in the public eye. The meal remains pleasantly sedate and uneventful, the conversation carefully constructed of basic small talk; nothing bordering on intimate.

But the vision of normality quickly begins to collapse by the time the waitress comes to collect dishes. A snippet of classical music playing just within earshot of the table provokes the most abnormal of reactions. The glass in Harley's hand silently slips from her grip and shatters upon contact with the marble floor. Her eyes widen in a fear that is so visceral, so brutal that she can only answer it with a scream.

In the split-seconds following, something Dr M had said runs though Bruce's mind.

_Triggers._

Even the slightest of triggers can induce a catastrophic breakdown. A harrowing reminder that when it came to Harley, stability was always going to be something just out of reach.

She bolts from the table, barging though a sea of befuddled diners before forcing her way past the front desk and into the street. Bruce's reflex kicks in, handing his wallet to the waitress before he takes off after Harley, knowing that her arrest will be imminent if the distance between them becomes too great.

He hurries himself along the busy sidewalk until he finds her about a block away. She's sitting hunched over on the curb with her knees pressed to her chest and her head buried in her hands. He dashes to reach her before a well-doer takes the plunge. Harley is oblivious to him at first, her shoulders shaking as her body is stricken with involuntary sobs. She feels Bruce's hand as it takes a firm hold on her arm from behind and wails in distress as she's forcefully hoisted to her feet. Assuming that he'll drag her back inside, she begins to struggle in his hold, shoving her elbows back in an attempt the break free. But he never does haul her away. Instead he swings her around, his fingers slink into her hair as he pushes her face to his chest and tightly wraps his other arm around her back.

Taken aback briefly, Harley finally succumbs to his embrace, and cries into his body. Her own hands snake around his waist, clutching at the back of his shirt and balling the fabric into her fists. The public glance in their direction, but do little to interrupt them.

To be held was a feat that Harley had not achieved since childhood. To just bask in the warmth of another human was something so empowering to her. For once she didn't feel alone, she felt safe, as though her misery had finally found company.


	4. Serpentine

**_A/N: Hey!_**

**_Ok, first of all I need to apologise for the fact that it's been almost a year since I updated._**

**_So sorry for that!_**

**_Basically it's a long story involving a corrupt hard drive resulting in the loss of all my work on this story and since then I've been writing and rewriting this damn chapter. Still not 100% happy with the finished product but it's the closest I'm going to get._**

**_Thanks so much for the support dis lil fic has gained, I really hope you like this chapter._**

**_Please please please read and review xxxxxxx_**

**_Disclaimer: I own nothing_**

* * *

Serpentine

A few lingering water droplets from his shower still cling to Bruce's hair as he trudges down the staircase towards the entrance hall of Wayne Manor. His hand moves to his jaw; the flesh there flushed a purple hue as a twisted souvenir from his escapades the previous night. He flinches, reaching up, momentarily forgetting that the faceless thug had also tried to jam a pocketknife between the Batman's shoulder blades.

Alas, tenacity had always been a proud trait amongst the Wayne men, and the ability to shake off pain came surprisingly easily to Bruce. Instead he forces all aspects of his alter-ego's existence aside and continues his descent down the staircase; ready to start the day as Bruce Wayne.

Almost immediately, his focus is drawn to a collection of brown paper packages sitting precariously atop of one another just beside the front door. His footfalls just reach the base of the stairs as Alfred hurries himself back into the foyer. His usual pallid appearance is now somewhat flushed and flustered. The older gentleman fails to turn to Bruce as he reaches for the parcels, instead addressing him with a nod of the head before throwing his voice over his shoulder.

"It appears as though our guest has discovered the Gothem City directory." Alfred exhales as he hauls the hefty weight "And the psychiatric archives of the library along with it."

Bruce lugs the remaining packages into his arms before idly following the butler on his trek. They quickly arrive in the manor's study; a quaint room in which every wall is stacked with books from floor to ceiling. Harley is sprawled out on her front in the centre of the room; dozens of old psychiatric journals strewn out meticulously on the floor ahead of her.

"Another delivery for you, Miss Quinzell." Alfred moves to gently place the packages onto the desk beside the young woman, earning a gracious smile and a genuine expression of gratitude from Harley. Bruce, however, opts to carelessly drop the parcel onto the small coffee table beside the armchair and rips away at the packaging; revealing a bulky textbook entitled '_The Criminal Mind'_. He suppresses the knee-jerk desire to laugh.

Alfred quietly excuses himself whilst Bruce lingers in the study. An entire minute of silence passes before he has to inquire.

"What the hell is this?"

"Research!" Harley excitedly exclaims, waving an archaic journal in his direction. "Gonna finish my PHD." She blurts quickly before turning back to her carefully laid out assortment of information adorning the study floor.

"When did you decide that?"

"At around 3am this morning." She casually states, not lifting her eyes from the papers. She waves her arms in his direction. "Now, if you could keep it down, I need to concentrate if I'm gonna be a doctor." Harley attempts to feign professionalism, but is instead met with a cynical scoff.

"Who in their right mind would give you a medical licence?" Bruce winces slightly, instantly regretting the sting his pessimism carried. He avoids her glare and picks up the bulky textbook resting on the table, lazily flicking through the pages.

"And just who pissed in _your_ coffee this morning?"

Bruce's eyes dart up from the book, watching as Harley leans back on her hands. She bites the inside of her cheek whilst she throws a scowl in his direction.

"I thought you'd be happy." She finally spits out solemnly.

"I didn't-"

"I'm doing everything Doctor M told me to." She blurts, her composed voice quickly ebbing away into tones of frustration. "That includes taking the advice of some schmuck who can't quite figure out if it's schizophrenia or cognitive dissonance that's the underline problem." Harley climbs up to her feet and begins pacing. Her hands tremble and she toys with her fingers to lessen the shakes; her initial irritation giving way to nervous ticks.

"But the old fart did hit the nail on the head with the PTSD, I'll give him that one." She's talking but can't seem to stop. The volume of her voice rises without conscious thought and the pacing becomes increasingly rapid.

"I'm sick, I get it, and I'm trying to fix that!" Bruce places the book back on the table, rising up from the chair.

"He told me to focus on something positive, so I am!" Harley begins to delve into hysterics. Her chest heaves and the saltiness in her eyes makes it hard to see. Bruce's form stands before her, but the finer details of him are hazy.

"And then you come in and shit all over my sunshine!" With a final outburst, she seems to exhaust the ability to think, to speak, to even breathe as her world begins to blur and she loses herself.

"I can't. I can't. I can't…"

Burly arms pull her to his chest and she feels frail in contrast. In her disoriented frenzy, she finds her only solace lies in hiding her head, pushing her face into Bruce's chest and letting the fabric of his shirt shield her from the malevolent world in which she resides. It's in her darkness that she finds the steady pulsing of his heart and focuses on the rhythm; allowing it to guide her home. Her breathing steadies and the violent shaking dwindles.

Panic attacks had become almost routine in the past few months. Such as the familiarity, that early warning signs light up like a tell in a poker match. Coping mechanisms varied, but there's a resilience in Harley which always seems to pull her through almost any self-contained catastrophe on her own accord. She manages to forage some sort of composure by studying the rise and fall of Bruce's chest and attempting to mimic it. She purges any despondency from her thoughts and tries to focus only on the light. And as quickly as the dread erupted, it subsides back into nonexistence.

When she finally stills, Bruce quickly withdraws himself, opting to return to the arm chair where he can declare neutrality. It's safer for the both of them that way. Harley slumps back down to the floor, tugging the sleeve of her sweater over her hand and using it to wipe the dampness from her face. She's still sniffling when she finds her voice again.

"You know this whole thing with Dr M, the only reason I'm even listening to that guy is because you asked me to." She doesn't look up, instead she scans the journals arranged beneath her and futilely waits for them to make some sort of sense.

"I know."

Bruce reaches for another book and attempts to steer the subject back to its origin. He inhales, somewhat unsure of how to avoid upsetting her again. _The positives_, _think of the positives._ "Your PHD." He starts. "What where you studying?"

"The origins of criminal intent." The irony isn't lost on Harley as she struggles to stifle a smirk. "I remember when I got on the program." She starts, running her fingers over an exceptionally aged journal from the 1950's. "My mother when wild, she called up all our family, our friends, practically running around the neighbourhood screaming that her daughter was gonna be a doctor. She was so proud."

Her focus is briefly drawn to John Bowlby's '_Maternal Deprivation Theory'_; a text which explores the possibility that childhood detachment from the mother could cause deviant behaviour on later life. There's a sting in her chest. "I guess mom's not so proud these days, huh?"

Just as silence creeps between the two of them, the phone in Bruce's pocket begins to incessantly buzz. He fidgets in his chair to free the device and glances at the lit-up screen for an instant before mumbling something about needing to visit the office. He fails to divulge any more information before excusing himself. The hefty manuscript he's been flicking through is quickly discarded, a loud thud sounding as he drops it on the table. Bruce's footsteps are tired and sluggish as he vacates the study.

Harley's eyes never leave him. Again she is left disgruntled by their interaction; outranged even that he can simply leave her at the drop of a hat. She just can't seem to get anything from him. Bruce Wayne: the indestructible enigma. It infuriates her to no end. To the point where she can't help but taunt him as he leaves.

"It must be real hard for you." She childishly sings in pseudo-delight. "To hear about my mom. To actually have to think of me as a person."

Bruce halts, but doesn't turn. Harley can see tension stretch across the back of his shoulders. His fists clench by his sides. She's almost proud of rousing such a reaction. But what she doesn't expect is his rebuttal.

"It's all I think about."

* * *

That night, Wayne manor became the watering hole for Gothem's elite as the 'Wayne foundation's Annual Gala for Public Services' bustled into fruition. The main hall of the colossal estate had been renovated into a lavish refuge for balding aristocrats and their bored housewives to gloat in their own perception of self-importance; whilst at the same time, mingling with the "little people" of the public service sector, who keep the city running. The annual event was a means of extorting private funding whilst keeping their champagne flutes full and their egos inflated.

Naturally, Bruce warned Harley that her attendance to the gala was not in her best interests, and naturally, she chose to disregard his advice the second it fell from his mouth. Instead she excitedly rushed about the manor, looking for an appropriate outfit for the esteemed event. After scavenging countless abandoned guest bedrooms; she eventually liberated an abandoned little black number, long-forgotten at the back of an ancient closet.

The noir fabric of the dress is thin and flimsy, and pinch too small for Harley's frame. The thin straps feebly cage her bust and the hem showcases a daring split to her thigh. Squeezing herself into the garment, she takes a look at herself in the mirror and falters. Although she's never been one to be self-conscious; Harley can't help but fixate on the way the dress exposes the variety of scars and bruises which stench across the expanse of her pallid skin. Her wounds used to be worn as medals of honour, rewards from her Puddin'; yet now they only repulse her. Still, she plasters on a smile, forcing her lips to curl against their nature; it was something she had become an expert in.

Harley paints her face with whatever cosmetics she can get her hands on. For the first time in her life, her prerogative was to fit in to the crowds which awaited downstairs and not stand apart from them. She tugs on her ill-fitting dress before preparing to make her entrance and tries not to think about who might have been the garment's previous owner.

* * *

The main hall of Wayne Manor is so massive in size that Harley feels it might just swallow her if she wonders too far. Countless pairs of eyes fall on her as she cautiously wades her way through a sea of faces, many of them hostile but none of them familiar to her. She feels heat rise in her cheeks and glares burn into the back of her head as the air in the room grows unbearably thick.

She plants herself down in a vacant chair with less decorum and grace than etiquette would allow. She's rough, heavy and unpolished, and although her evening look is bordering on immaculate; she still stands miles apart from her peers. Harley's hands idly move towards the place settings before her, restless fingertips gliding along polished silver as the guest to her right steals her attention. An esteemed older woman runs her disapproving gaze briefly over the younger's form before settling on the thick black strap which cuts across her pale ankle. The monitor is on display in all its ugly glory thanks to the slit of the dress.

"Oh this?" Harley sticks out her foot a little, almost proudly showcasing the contraption as the woman cannot bring herself to look away. Instead she gives a slight shake of her head and murmurs something to the guest beside her.

"It's really clever actually." Harley grins with enthusiasm as the woman finally faces her. "Yeah, it stops me from doing stupid things." She briefly fingers the steak knife in front of her before gripping the handle and bringing it upward. "It stops me form poking holes in fancy old gals, like yourself." She jabs the knife forward into thin air a few times, emphasising her point.

A look of horror slowly works itself across the woman's face before Harley speaks again.

"Hey?" She sings with childish glee, pointing the blade in the woman's direction. "You wanna see if it works?"

She almost breaks into a fit of laughter before the knife crashes to the table and Harley finds herself being yanked up and away from her chair. Bruce's grip is firm and unyielding on her upper arm as he pulls her across the room and drags her from the crowd. Her meagre protests are feeble in comparison to the brute strength of the man before her. The only thing she can do is yelp in defence as they exit the hall.

"It was a joke!"

* * *

Bruce quickly comes to second guess his brashness as Harley yanks herself free from his grip. She turns away from him in the empty corridor of the east wing of Wayne manor. In fact, he may have just rendered her speechless. Her hunched stance is something reminiscent of a scolded child, but the way in which her head hangs and her eyes meet the floor echo something which causes Bruce's heart to sink a little, humiliation.

There's a frailty in her, something which he always seems to overlook. He's brutal by nature, blunt and sensible, And she's a woman who'd been conditioned to never suppress an impulse, they were always bound to collide. But she's trying. She's really trying this time.

Bruce intuitively moves to apologise, but Harley shrugs it off instantly and hurries away from him. As he urges himself to follow her, a familiar voice calls him back towards his guests and the still-bustling gala.

"Mr Wayne!" The heavy drone, belonging to Jim Gordon, cuts through the noise. Bruce fixes his expression, offering his hand out in greeting which the older man happily reciprocates, eagerly shaking it. The commissioner exudes a scent of cigars and bourbon and his glasses sit unbalanced and off-centre atop of his nose; indicating that he'd been enjoying the night's festivities for some time.

Bruce bares a grin, radiating a charm which has become a defining characteristic of the billionaire. "Glad you could make it, Commissioner."

"You know, it's been nearly three months now and not a single one of my boys has had to even step foot in this place." The older man's eyes briefly wonder around the room, his hand gesturing to the finery which decorates the hall as the vintage whisky sloshes around awkwardly in his glass. "You must have the little lady on a short leash." He turns back to the younger man, his expression hazed and placid. "Careful with that one."

"She's fine." Bruce adds nonchalantly, hoping to steer the conversation away from the topic of Harley. He quickly swipes a drink from a passing hostess before attempting to turn the subject into something neutral, milder even, like the new school program he is helping to fund.

"_Fine_?!"Gordon exclaims, his inebriation partly disabling his ability to mediate the volume of his own voice. "How could she possibly be fine? She's damaged!" Bruce leans closer to stifle the older man and begins to lead him away from the socialites; noticing that the outburst is attracting some unwanted attention from those nearby.

"That man…" Gordon grips Bruce's arm intensely but cannot find it within himself to finish the thought. "He-he's not even human." His eyes have an aura of glassiness now, as if somewhere, he's reliving the same trauma that thousands in Gotham shared. "The things he must have done to her." Bruce finally begins to understand what Gordon is really digging into. "I-I don't see how anyone can come back from that."

"Anyone can be salvaged, commissioner." The younger man simply states as he steps back, regaining his default stance. Gordon steps back, releasing Bruce's arm and shaking his head.

"Do you honestly believe that, Mr Wayne?"

"I have to." The lines of his lips force their way into a slight smile which, although intended to reassure the older man, only served to unnerve him more. "It's my father's legacy. He believed in this city and the people in it."

Gordon stares at the younger man, momentarily in disbelief before sighing. "I hope you're right, Bruce. I really do." He chunters

"I just can't see how this can possibly end well for you."

* * *

When Bruce finally catches up to Harley, she's basking in the moonlight out on the balcony which extends from his bedroom. The small, stone terrace stands at the highest point of the grand estate, with an expansive view of the ruined city which had raised them both. The young woman leans into the railings, fixated on the way the ground below is swallowed by the blackness of the night. Bruce's footsteps fall heavily on the stone floor behind her but fail to steal her from her morbid trance.

"I've thought about it, ya know?" Her voice is unusually soft and servile as she speaks into the humid night air. "Came really close sometimes." Harley shifts her weight onto her palms and tentatively leans further towards the void below. "I… I think it excites me. The finality of it all. The one true path to freedom"

Bruce's unyielding footsteps quickly approach, but still can't shake her from her stupor. Instead she focuses of the chill of the balcony railings she clutches to and the way the sensation creeps up her arms, causing her to feel fragile in contrast to the structure; like she could topple at any given moment.

"But I guess what really stops me from doing it is the fact that I'd never be able to do it over and over again. '_Only get the one chance to wack yourself otta existence, Quinn'_." Her voice drips with a twisted humour and is sickeningly melodic, reminding Bruce of the clown who still has his claws sunk into the both of them. The madman's maniacal laughter resounds in only his ears, jolting him into a frenzied state where his body lunges forward and his arms reach to yank to young woman away from the ledge.

Harley's stance fails to falter as she's violently spun to meet Bruce's face. There's the slightest thud as her chest collides with his, but she's unrelenting and stubborn, denying the impact its desired effect. She remains cold and unaffected whilst he degenerates, allowing frustration and emotion to eat away at his rational self.

"Why?" There's a crack when he starts to speak. "Why are you telling me this?" A more humble man would claim he's pleading with her.

"Because I have to." A surge of defiance dares her to meet his stern gaze, "Because there are a million thoughts burning through my head and if I don't purge them, I'll explode!" She doesn't realise her voice has risen a whole octave before the words force their way passed her lips. "Because it's always like this for me! I'm constantly two beats from either suicide or combustion!"

When his large hand softly moves to brush against the pasty flesh of her shoulder in Bruce's meagre attempt at consolation, A wicked grin tugs at the edges of Harley's lips. Her eyes glaze as she refuses to allow the threatening tears to spill. Bruce quickly snatches his limb away from her as the murmur of maniacal laughter sounds deep within her stomach before bursting from her mouth.

"But it's funny, right?! Everything is hysterical! So. Fucking. Funny!"

She briefly loses herself in a fit of cackles as her hysteria reaches its apex in a shrill pitch which stabs into Bruce's gut. It's almost enough to bend him over in pain. She only ceases when he yells for her to stop.

"Never been one to laugh though, have ya?" Harley coos as she steps back, her fingers hooking in the balcony railings beind her once again. The tears still reside patiently in the brims of her eyes as she looks up to Bruce; her face still contorted into a twisted grin. "And come to think of it, you can't even smile properly. It's like your mouth knows what it should be doing but the rest of your face never seems to get the message."

She leans back, inviting the recomposed Bruce to venture towards her again. He moves to place a hand on the railing to her right and the other to her left, caging her in with his towering form. Harley continues to taunt him, sticking her chin out and cocking her eyebrow.

"I know what it is." She chants. "It's your eyes. There's nothing there." There's an intensity in his expression, but she can't put her finger on whether it's aggravation or something along the lines of ignominy. "Nothing there but sadness." Their eyes finally lock and she suddenly finds that she understands more about Bruce Wayne in that moment than she ever has about anybody.

"There's a war in your head but you've already given up."

It wasn't a question, more a statement of fact. When he fails to react again, she gives up the charade.

"God, I can't think of anything worse than to love somebody like you."

Harley isn't thinking when she takes his lapels between her fingers, or when she yanks them towards her. All she can focus on is the surge of heat which pulses its way through her torso as Bruce's firm chest knocks into her sternum and the stubble on his chin grates along her skin in their clumsy collision. Her hands move on their own accord, sliding from his collar to the back of his head before pushing him towards her, meeting his lips with her eager mouth.

Finally, following a brief falter into disbelief, Bruce resists. He perfectly hits every beat a decent man should, like a well-rehearsed performance. Placing his hands on her shoulders and applying firm pressure to separate their embrace. He's only partly successful as he breaks from her kiss enough to survey her face. Harley's eyes remain closed, he expression surprisingly placid yet somehow deprived. His hands slide down the light skin of her arms until they reach her balled fists which still cling to the collar of his tux.

Bruce's fingers swiftly work at untangling Harley's own, but he hesitates as the fabric is released from her grip and her unoccupied hands rest in his, shaking slightly. She eventually opens her eyes again. However this time, a different woman gazes back at him. Heavy lidded and focused, she's nothing of the unhinged and deranged persona she bore only moments ago. Instead she's a siren, a lust crazed creature with an endless appetite. She shakes her hands free of his and moves them up to his neck and tangles her fingers in his hair.

This time, when she yanks him down to meet her mouth, he doesn't stop her. Instead he repays the favour in kind, his hand sliding its way around to the middle of her back, crushing her chest to his. A groan of appreciation escapes from Harley's mouth and glides across Bruce's lips. She takes care not to break the kiss whilst she clings fervently to his broad shoulders and hurls her body up; settling her backside atop of the balcony railings and eagerly draws him in, positioning his middle securely between her legs.

There's a tenderness to him she didn't expect. After battling with him for longer than she'd care to admit, she had anticipated every corner of him to be hardened and jagged. Kindness was weak, and Gotham's Batman was anything but. But there it was, in the way he held her, a hand at the small of her back, urging her towards him and away from the plummet bellow. He anchored her to him, as someone would to protect a child.

Bruce's movements against her lips are slow and deliberate, but no less passionate than the fury that Harley had hoped to ignite. She's never been kissed in such a way that is completely devoid of hatred or revulsion. She's never been kissed without pain or vehemence. She's never known this kind of compassion. And instead of learning to savour the sensation, she deduces that she must destroy it, because it's far more than she deserves.

She leans, forcing her weight backwards in a motion which serves as more of a shallow threat than anything else; relishing in the tug of gravity on her limbs. But she secretly prefers the firm grip which secures itself around her hips as Bruce's hands yank at her waist and the flesh of her thighs, drawing her back to him. Back to safety. That's the way he's always been with Harley, opting to draw her to him rather than to push himself upon her.

She hums across his lips, into his open mouth as he's pressed further between her thighs. But he's still too reserved, too gentle to satiate her thirst, and instead, he only intensifies it. She tightens her legs around his middle, hoping to coax him further; hoping that the hand on her thigh will venture higher under the fabric of her dress.

When Bruce doesn't comply, she succumbs to frustration and bites down hard into the tender flesh of his lower lip. His hold on her body instantly ceases, he jerks backward, away from her as pain sears through his mouth.

There's the distinct tang of blood on her lips, faint at first, but it grows intense with the knowledge that it's Bruce's. Harley tongues it briefly as the corners of her mouth curl into a wicked grin. Madness flashes in her eyes, but there's an intensity and ferocity there too, something much more human than the Joker could ever muster.

She drops from her perch and straightens her dress, brushing her hands down to smoothen the fabric which had rumpled up her legs. She offers Bruce the briefest of glances, grinning at the flustered, bemused look which takes the place of his usually blasé demeanour. There's the slightest trace of blood lingering on his bottom lip.

Wordlessly, Harley steps towards him and reaches up to rest her palm along the side of his face. Her hold is uncharacteristically gentle on his jaw as she reaches up to plant her lips softly to the corner of his mouth. Her tongue darts out and leisurely licks a trail across his lower lip, relishing the sickly taste of iron. She's almost certain she can feel him shudder under her touch as she pulls back to meet his eyes again before breaking away and falling back onto her heels. She dresses herself in nonchalance and calmly walks away.

Harley doesn't bother to turn her head as she ventures back inside, she knows Bruce is already following her.


	5. Siren

_**A/N: Hello there! Massive apologies for such a long wait between chapters again. My new laptop (the replacement for my old bag of crap) also decided that it didn't want to work anymore, making the writing of this chapter so darn difficult. That and the fact that I can't stand writing my own lemons.**_

_**Thank you much for the Favs/Alerts/Reviews xxx**_

_**You may notice that the rating has upped… take that as you will**_

_**Now, prepare for the angst!**_

_**Disclaimer: I don't own any of the characters**_

_**I apologise for any typos since I am currently beta-less**_

* * *

4\. Siren

It's hurried, juvenile even, the way Harley paws at Bruce's jacket. A word of warning sounds from his mouth as she yanks the clothing from his shoulders and discards it somewhere on his bedroom floor. He speaks again, her name dropping from his mouth in a tone so visceral that it warns of something cataclysmic following if she chooses to ignore it.

And she will ignore it, his warning; she will always choose to buck against whatever restraints drag her away from her carnal needs. So instead, before Bruce can utter another word, she reaches for the buttons of his dress-shirt, swiping her way through the fastenings with ease. Bruce doesn't swat her hands away in discouragement, opting instead to keep a firm grip on her upper arms as she peppers his face with kisses. It's a little victory in her mind. _He must want this too._

_Oh course he does, every man's vice is either sex or violence. _

_Sometimes both._

Opting to kick away her high heels and rising to her tiptoes, Harley pushes her entire body flush against his. She takes a second to catch his gaze, breathing all of him in as she comes to the conclusion that she's never craved anything this urgently in her life.

Her lips clumsily find Bruce's mouth once again as she slips her hands beneath the shirt. Tension runs tight through his shoulders, but it seems to reluctantly dissolve under her touch. His own grasp on her arms slackens and lazily glides to the small of Harley's back. His primitive wishes clash with his pre-existing moral-fibre. He's at a loss between egotism and decorum.

However the victor is soon apparent as the fabric of Harley's dress is balled into Bruce's clenched fists. Moments later, his hands reach for the fastenings at the back of her gown, working swiftly as the dress falls free from her frame and softly rumples to the floor. It's only then that he pronounces chivalry as well and truly dead.

Harley tugs at the edges of Bruce's shirt, ridding him of it as her kisses become clumsy and rushed. She relishes in the feel of his hands on her newly exposed skin, gripping firmly at the flesh of her backside and trailing up and down her spine. Just holding him there, tasting his lips and tongue is an intimacy that's altogether novel and a little daunting.

She abruptly breaches contact, pushing her palms into Bruce's shoulders and breaking the kiss. She casts her gaze downwards, bringing a hand to her forehead whilst attempting to steady her breathing. It's only when she looks back up that she can truly appreciate the sight before her.

The skin of his chest is a taut tapestry of scars, both old and new. Any hesitation she had fizzles away as a bolt of twisted delight runs through Harley; she hazily recalls the marks caused by her own fists and boot heels. She quickly trances a fresh scar with her fingertips as she traps her bottom lip between her teeth and grins with playful malice before flinging her arms around Bruce's neck, kissing him hard. Harley draws the larger man to her body, dragging them both backwards.

Moments before she can fall into the lavish bed sheets, she hears the clasp of her bra snap open and feels the lace around her chest immediately loosen. The backs of her knees finally collide with the bed frame and they topple gracelessly onto the mattress together.

In an instant he's upon her, his welcome heat falling perfectly between her thighs. She doesn't remember how or when they shed the remainder of their clothes, and quickly realises that she doesn't care.

When he enters her, it's with little warning, not than she ever needed one to begin with. Her lips part in a silent sigh which is followed by a sharp intake of breath before she finds herself falling into contentment; every bit eager to continue.

As Bruce begins to move, it's leisurely and shallow, controlled even, as with almost every aspect of his life. Harley quickly tires, mewling and squirming beneath him. He leans in and kisses her, slowly, and she responds by aggressively slamming her palms into his shoulders, breaking their contact again. Their eyes meet temporarily, expressions unreadable, but somehow Harley finds herself slowly nodding her head.

His next thrust knocks the breath from her lungs. The following leaves her temporarily blind and the one after causes her to forget her own name. Her gasps and moans quickly turn into unintelligible cries. The tension which had been steadily mounting between them finally bursts into a satisfying fruition. With heavy eyes, she watches the man above her rapidly unravel. The same man who has fought so hard to keep his many lives divided effortlessly succumbs to blurred boundaries where the right and the wrong collide. His jaw clenches and his brow furrows and Harley realises that she adores his uncharacteristic sincerity.

Sighing, she rewards his honesty by tightening her legs around his middle and digging her nails into his back. She pulls him downward, Bruce's chest thumping against her own and her mouth seizing his. His grunts reverberate along her lips, her tongue, blending with her own voice until the sound merges into one.

One hand grasps firmly at the flesh of her thigh while the other begins to play havoc on her nerves at the place where their bodies join. His mouth breaks from hers and settles hotly at the base of her neck. Harley loses herself in that moment, following him at an erratic pace. Bruce's flesh turns red under her fingers. Her hips jerk, back arches and his drawn out groan reverberates along her skin.

The world goes blank for a fraction of a second, and Harley's mind is momentarily cleared; no fear, no confusion, no maniacal laughter filling her ears, just the slightest inclination that this may be what it feels like to be loved by someone.

As the world seeps back, Bruce does his best not to crush Harley under his weight, instead rolling himself over beside her. He remains silent, looking to the ceiling with heavy limps and a pounding heart.

Gradually, Harley's chest begins to stop heaving and the clammy sweat on her skin settles, doing little to cool her. Somewhere in the midst of her immense comedown she's left stricken in a state of awe. She'd since forgotten that sex sometimes required intimacy; that a man could use his body for something much greater than destruction.

If she was completely honest with herself, she'd forgotten what conventional romance felt like. It had not been like this since her first high-school sweetheart in what must've been a thousand lifetimes ago. Even then they were young and clumsy, fumbling about in the backseat of his dad's car. But this was something else entirely.

Her mind races in the aftermath; it was foreign, if not slightly unnerving, the way he met her eyes during; instead of flipping her over onto all fours and forcing her face into a pillow. The way he fucked her hard enough to see stars, but didn't leave the flesh of her limbs marked a painful purple shade. And now she finds herself lost in a pleasant feeling of fulfilment, yet one that somehow runs parallel to a desire for more. It's a far cry from the usual dull ache between her legs that _Mr J_ would leave her with, alone on the floor, used and hollow.

Harley turn's her head, briefly taking in the sight of Bruce before moving to wrap herself around him. She drapes her body across his chest, embracing as much of his burly form as she can muster. There's a moment of trepidation before his arm comes to rest along her shoulders, drawing her to him and accepting her warmth.

She briefly nuzzles into his neck before drawing her head back. Her hand moves on its own accord, ghosting over the stubble running along Bruce's jaw. She focuses on the fine lines around his mouth and the deeper ones clinging to the corners of his eyes. There's a heaviness to his features, making him look older and warn down. She looks even closer and is sure that there's a new-found frailty to him. Harley feels a sharp pang of a feeling akin to guilt, knowing that she's likely the cause, knowing that her welcome is wearing thin.

She should be reeling, battling with herself as she has done for years; but the warmth beneath her and the arms caging her frame are enough for her to call a terse truce. Clarity has never been a staple point of Harley's psyche; but for tonight, she's granted just enough peace to hush the voices in her head whilst she falls into something which resembles slumber.

* * *

The morning sun is already blaring though the entire eastern wing of Wayne Manor by the time the blinding haze rouses Bruce from his dreamless sleep. The regular momentary numbness seizes his limbs in these waking moments whilst his vision returns. He adjusts to consciousness and surveys his bedroom; the discarded articles of clothing which adorn his furnishings are instantly familiar to him. The events of the previous night are hurled back into the forefront of his thoughts along with a swell of regret.

Bruce cautiously reaches out, patting down and tamping his bed sheets until he's almost certain that he's alone. He turns himself over just to be sure whilst simultaneously swallowing an unusual cocktail of relief and disappointment. He mumbles a brief motivational mantra to himself before finally rising from the bed.

Partially blinded by the aggressive sunlight, Bruce makes a tardy attempt to cover his modesty and in that moment makes a mental note of the bathrobe missing from the back of his bedroom door. He turns towards his dresser and quickly pulls out whatever he come across first before venturing downstairs.

The mansion seems to fall unusually dormant as Bruce reaches the bottom of the staircase. In the corner of his eye, he catches a few members of the catering staff from the previous night as they scurry about, aiming to be unseen, but failing miserably. He offers them a civil 'good morning', only realising the gruffness to his tone as the sounds push passed his lips. He excuses himself with an awkward nod of his head before venturing towards the kitchen.

He seeks out coffee, finding a fresh pot sitting on the counter-top. He pours a cup, bringing it to his mouth and inadvertently inhaling the heavy aroma. It's then that the previous state of silence is shattered as Harley's shrill tones of wild laughter ring through the manor.

Bruce scrambles after the sound, winding up in the adjacent sitting room. Harley's perched on the sofa, her legs stretched out along the length of it and an enormous smile stretching across her face. He notices his own navy blue bathrobe hanging limply from her shoulders. The entire garment swamps her, flowing along the length of her body, and then some. Instincts tell him he should be vexed by such an assumption of domesticity; yet he isn't because he can't help but marvel at the way the oversized article makes her look. She appears smaller, younger and emits a kind of freedom that he's never experienced himself. He doesn't dare himself to admit it, but she looks happy.

Alfred swoops into the room, mutely handing Bruce's discarded cup of coffee back to its rightful owner before approaching Harley. She swings her head round in the direction of the two men as her eyes widen and her grin begins to border on feral. She vigorously pats her hand on the seats beside her as an invitation to join before swinging her legs off the sofa and scooting to the far end.

"Sit." She giggles before turning back to the television screen, her focus settling on the news report currently playing. Bruce hesitantly sinks into the seat beside her; he leans forward, resting his forearms on his knees, hands clasped together. The screen switches to an aged woman; she's somewhat regal-looking, her greying hair groomed and her expression tight. The woman begins to crow about the horror she'd experienced at the mercy of a diabolical villain.

"Look, my friend's famous!" Harley suddenly cries out; she bounces excitedly while pointing her finger at the television.

Bruce's heart sinks; He begins to recognise the array of features on the screen. They belong to the elderly lady from the gala the previous night, the butt of Harley's poorly-placed joke. The caption underneath her image only confirms his fears; she's the mayor's wife.

"So dramatic." Harley playfully brings the back of her hand up to her forehead and cranes her neck. "Somebody must'a had acting classes." The woman on the screen visibly shakes and, at some point, actually tears up. Her antics only fuel Harley's amusement as she howls louder.

Bruce can't make out the entirety of the news report, only catching splinters of information as the scenes before him keep interchanging and various reporters input on the situation.

"… Recent events have brought many of Wayne Enterprises' key shareholder's to question the motives of its figurehead…"

An exterior shot of the company headquarters fills the screen with a new headline running through the image: "The fall of the Wayne Empire?" The news anchor continues to drone as the picture cuts to Harley's mug-shot, causing the young woman beside him to burst into a fit of hysterical laughter.

"Fuck." Bruce murmurs to himself. There's a ringing in his ears. It's piercing and relentless. The volume intensifies until the sound is deafening and his face heats up. Just as it verges on unbearable, he realises that the sound is no longer confined to his head and instead is emitting from every phone in the house. Alfred quickly re-enters the room, handing an insistent cell-phone to Bruce before leaving the answer the call in the kitchen.

The billionaire hurriedly flicks through the screen; numerous messages and missed calls glaring back at him. He looks up at Harley, who's still blissful in her own world of hilarity, before a frustrated snarl escapes him.

"It's not funny." He rises from the sofa, tone short and sharp.

"Huh?" Harley abruptly ceases her hysterics, head tilting to one side. She reads the look on his face, suddenly becoming offended as she too climbs up from her seat. "You're mad at_ me_?!"

"What the hell did you do?!" Bruce's hands reach for his face before running through his hair, slightly tugging on the strands in irritation.

"I made a joke!" Harley holds out her arms in defence before crossing them tightly over her chest. "S'Not my fault the ol' bag left her sense of humour at home."

"You really don't see it, do you?" The question is rhetorical.

"You don't think you've done anything wrong?" Again rhetorical, but the heightened pitched and wide-eyed look of disbelief on Bruce's face makes Harley feel self-conscious under his scrutiny.

He shakes his head, and somehow that action alone, hurts a hell of a lot more than being beaten to within an inch of her life. He's dismissing her, holding up his hands and turning away as if arguing with her is pointless. As if she's pointless.

Harley unfolds her arms, choosing to clench her fists by her sides and traps her bottom lip between her teeth to stop it from trembling. She wants to cry, to blub and sob like the child he's making her out to be, but refuses to give him the satisfaction of being right.

"You know what I am!" She calls out behind him, furiously following his footsteps, stomping each one in a fit of frustration. Bruce immediately stops in his tracks and Harley tries her best not to tumble into the back of him. He turns to her, jaw stiff and eyes furious, waiting for her to elaborate.

"And you knew exactly what I was when you brought me here!" She points her finger at him, her tone malignant. "Yet now you're getting pissed off 'cause I've done exactly what you knew I would do." She thrusts her finger forward, poking him in the chest.

"So that's your excuse?" Bruce's voice is calm but is betrayed by the aggravation etched into his features. "You're not going take responsibility for your actions?" There's venom in his words, hidden shoddily by his matter-of-fact tone, and it cuts straight through her. "Because that's what real people do, Harley, they take responsibility for their actions."

"We ain't people. You and me. We may look like 'em but we ain't like everybody else." Harley spits out callously, only realising how absurd she must sound after the words leave her and hang in the air between them. Her eyes flutter closed and she attempts to seek out calm before she can make the situation any worse. She takes a deep breath before opening her eyes, catching them both off guard with what she says next.

"What do you want from me?"

She's met by silence.

"Why am I even here?"

Bruce's mouth purses into a stern line and he slowly shakes his head. Harley gives up on hoping for an answer, her shoulders slump and she looks to the ground, signalling her surrender. His frown begins to slacken as he too fights the urge to yield and apologise. His mouth opens; soothing words on the brink of forming just as every phone within earshot begins to frantically ring again, including the one pressed to his palm.

"Look, I have to go. I just do. I have to fix this."

"Please." Bruce starts, his hands fall firmly on her shoulders as he leans forward, bending down until his face is level with hers. His eyes hold Harley's own and instantly she's rendered helpless. She sniffles, failing miserably to keep her face dry as her bottom lip quivers. The intensity of his stare is suddenly too much and her gaze falls to the floor.

"Please, for the love of God, just don't do anything while I'm gone."

Bruce's voice is pleading and oozes reason, so much reason that anything she could possibly say in opposition would be rendered illogical by comparison. The whole thing makes her feel weak.

"Don't go anywhere. Don't speak to anyone. Just, for me, please?"

He gently rubs his hands up and down the lengths of her arms as Harley finds herself feebly nodding her head in compliance. Moments pass before his touch leaves her and he turns away, heading upstairs to dress himself for work. Harley remains stationary, unable to move due to her own severe stubbornness. She lingers there until Bruce reappears in the following minutes and watches as he hurriedly vacates the manor. She waits for the front door to click shut before snatching a costly-looking vase from the coffee table and hurling it against the wall.

* * *

The sun is already sinking into the horizon by the time Bruce's commute home reaches its end. He's exhausted, in every sense of the word, and for once, completely at a loss with what to do with himself. How could a man so firm on rules and boundaries, a man who could set apart everything as either black or white, find himself sinking deeper and deeper into a endless pit of grey?

There's a stagnant stillness to the manor as he enters. It's quiet, lifeless. The staff clearing the last leftovers of the gala must have made themselves scarce long before his return. It's the silence which grants Bruce the ability to think clearly if only for a few moments. He pledges morality, denouncing that his night with Harley was a regrettable slip in judgement, one he must correct.

He continues to silently berate himself as he trudges upstairs to his bedroom, feet sluggish and shoulders slumped. He shouldn't have allowed his own fall into ethical ambiguity; he shouldn't have taken advantage of someone so vulnerable, someone he was supposed to be protecting. Yet something calls out from the darkest parts of him. Something that tells him it was all her idea in the first place, her instigation. He was powerless; he was hers the moment she set her sights on him. Bruce shakes away the vulgar thoughts, attempting to drown them out with ones of productivity, ones that will find a resolution for his altercation with Harley. He plans to apologise and briefly wonders if she's still upset, but quickly corrects himself; knowing that there is no use predicting any of her behaviour or the intentions behind it.

Without realising, he's standing by his bedroom door and finds that his new found resolve instantly fractures the moment he steps inside his abode. She's already perched oh his bed, dressed in only an ill fitting t-shirt and underwear which leaves little to the imagination. Her eyes flash upward at his intrusion before a teasing smile lights up her face. Harley leans forward and positions herself on all fours as she beckons him over to her. She's a siren: merciless.

And in that moment, any will-power Bruce had leaves him in a defeated sigh. His hands move up to loosen the tie around his neck as he walks towards her. He feels laden as he slumps himself down at the foot of the bed, looking to the window to see the last remainder of daylight slip into dark.

Within seconds Harley is upon him, her thighs straddling his lap, her dainty hands lost in his hair and her mouth hot on his jaw. She kisses her way to his ear, whispering something explicitly lewd before pushing herself down in his lap, desperate for a reaction.

Bruce closes his eyes briefly, purging his mind of logic, before he finds his fingers have already looped around the band of her underwear and begun to tug downward. His free hand grips forcibly at her shoulders, pulling her back before planting a rough kiss on her lips. Harley coos into his mouth with delight, feeling him stiffen beneath her.

Before he knows it, he's pounding her into the mattress. Her chest heaving, voice horse, and the headboard hammering relentlessly against the wall. It's rough and heavy, the kind of angry fucking that people can lose themselves to. Harley cries out, nails digging into Bruce's arms as his rhythm becomes frantic and jagged.

She's close, and by proxy, he is too. And as reality begins to shift into fleeting ecstasy, Bruce is suddenly plagued by every mistake he's ever made, especially those which had the direst of consequences. Everyone he's ever lost, every friend who had become a foe, every innocent bystander caught in the crossfire. And as he peaks in Harley's embrace, he can only envision a future where nothing other than misery awaits them both.

As fatigue begins to claim his limbs and sooth his troubled mind, Bruce looks to Harley, wondering if the same epiphany struck her too. He studies her face as the friction he instigated between her legs causes her to come crashing down from a calamitous high. She quickly stills, sweat clinging to her brow and her breathing shallow. Her expression then softens into something devoid of any clear emotion. She reaches for him, taking his face between her hands. Bruce remains above her, still nestled inside like it's perfectly natural for them both. Harley's typically effervescent eyes now somehow seem glassy and lifeless, and her voice is uncharacteristically husky.

"I should have killed you when I had the chance."

He's not sure he heard her right but the odds of reiteration are non-existent as she's already separating herself from him and turning away onto her side, feigning sleep. Bruce remains motionless, unable to process what the hell just happened.

* * *

The night is aberrantly frigid for the time of year, so much so that it's the chill which wakes Harley prematurely and not the distant sirens of the city streets. The clock on Bruce's nightstand reads a little after midnight. An exasperated groan escapes her mouth as she realises the reason she's so cold is because she's alone in the enormous bed. She attempts to cocoon herself in the sheets, hoping to doze away the hours until morning breaks. However, frustration beings to sink in when she realises her mind is awake and her abnormal thoughts have already begun to surge through a hundred different scenarios in her head.

Harley kicks her legs free from the sheets, whining at her own exhaustion. She quickly scoops one of Bruce's dress shirts from the floor and flings it over her shoulders, shrouding her naked form. The shirt dwarfs her, the hem hanging just above her knees and the long sleeves skimming another five inches passed the ends of her fingers.

The hallways of the manor remain icy and silent as Harley ventures out into the darkness. There's no definite destination for her journey, only the hope that she can wear her mind down until it craves sleep again. Wondering, she finds herself in the same room where things had erupted with Bruce the previous morning. She clenches her fist unwillingly and only releases it when the pain from her nails digging into her palm becomes unbearable. She inwardly concludes that whatever pleasantries existed between the plains of their warped relationship must be verging on extinction.

Harley moves to the end table, picking up the TV remote and turns on the gigantic flat screen. She flicks through a number of channels, avoiding late-night game shows and trashy reality TV. She isn't sure what she's looking for until she comes across the 24-hour news station. Her hand stills, fingers no longer pressing buttons.

It's the Batman.

He's on a rooftop somewhere in downtown Gotham. The limited camera angels from the news chopper make it practically impossible to distinguish any landmarks in the surrounding scenery. He could be anywhere.

But location isn't what's making Harley's skin crawl; it's the fact that he isn't alone. The caption running along the bottom of the scream reads: "Batman in pursuit of violent gang." There are three of them in total, all armed with clubs, crow bars and what could be an axe. Three burly looking mobsters who easily match the infamous caped crusader in stature. Each one of the culprits wears a mask which mutilates their facial features, making them appear as decaying works of art. There's something haunting familiar about them, an unshakable sense of déjà vu; but the hectic nature of Harley's memories prevents her from any clear conclusion.

The three men, though in their jarred movements and grisly builds they appear to be more of a swarm, plough into the Batman and swipe him off his feet. They surround him. Beating and hacking in an undistinguishable blend of violence. A sob trickles from Harley's lips as her eyes widen in horror, unable to look away. There's disjointed movement as the four men tumble together further towards the rooftop's ledge. It's a frantic array of thrashing which abruptly ends only when Batman topples from the roof.

He falls. _Oh god, he falls._

Harley's heart drops unto the pit of her stomach as the picture cuts to a stunned reporter. The woman on the screen is rendered motionless in a second of silence before she splutters on the words churned out by her teleprompter. Harley doesn't hear any of it. The remote in her hand drops to the carpet. She turns her back on the television and walks away.

The night's blistery chill fails to reach her skin this time and the darkness no longer hinders her vision. She moves from room to room in an unshakable daze before stopping in the hallway. Nothing she had just witness could have possibly been true because she knew that the Batman was infallible. She knows that Bruce Wayne would surely be returning home at any moment following a late night drive. She looks to the front door and wills it to burst open.

When it doesn't, she screams. Over and over again.

She screams until her voice breaks, until her throat strains, until her legs give out and she falls to the floor. She folds her limbs, bringing her knees tightly to her chest and burying her head in her hands. Harley begins to rock back and fourth, incomprehensibly mumbling until she sways herself into a state of catatonic bliss.

She doesn't feel the warmth of Alfred's hand as it comes to rest tentatively on her shoulder. The older man's concerned voice falls on deaf ears as he seeks out the cause of her distress. He stays beside her for what could have been an hour, maybe two. He speaks to her, soothingly, but she hears nothing.

At some point in the night, Alfred leaves her side, and at another point, the dark sky filters away into the pale blue hues of early morning. Light begins to trickle into the manor. Harley continues rocking, peacefully oblivious to the world beyond her bubble. She remains ignorant until a voice forces her back into the chaotic present.

"Harley?!"

Her head snaps up and tremors seize her limbs.

There he is, in the flesh.

Cape and cowl discarded but most of the black suit still intact. There are fresh scratches adorning his amour along with various dents and grazes. His dark hair is a dishevelled mop atop of his head and the skin around his left eye is broken and bruised in a trail which ends at his chin. Yet with all the imperfections aside, he looks damn good for a dead man.

At a complete loss as how to process the latest turn of events, Harley scrambles to her feet and strides towards Bruce. The brooding man initially outstretches his arms, assuming that she's seeking out his embrace; but a radical change in tempo catches him off guard as she slams her hands into his chest.

Bruce's first attempts at restraining her are feeble and sloppy as Harley proves to be too agile for him in his fatigued state. She shoves into him repeatedly in a fit of blind panic, all the while babbling something as she swings the entirety of her weight into the assault.

Her voice is still horse, throat still torn whilst she shoves harder. It's only when Bruce manages to grab onto one of her swinging arms that he's able to finally hear her.

"I can't go back." She croaks before balling her free hand into a fist.

It all transcends far too quickly for either of them to catch up and fully understand the gravity of their conduct. Harley's clenched fist thrusts upward, striking Bruce's jaw with a force which far exceeds her own strength. She doesn't have the time to regret it as his head flinches backward on impact; only to snap back moments later, his face contorted with rage and his huge hand at her throat. Suddenly she's forced back, her whole body slamming against the unrelenting surface of the foyer wall. The wind forced from her lungs and her rage extinguished.

Harley blinks back tears and attempts to reclaim her breath. It's then that she catches brutality quickly flashing in Bruce's dark eyes. Even in the dimness of the early hours, she recognises it, a look she's all too familiar with. She already knows what's coming next and wordlessly prepares to die.

Bruce comes undone with a scream as his fist is hurled into the concrete beside her head. Agony sears through him, agony which seats itself much deeper than the broken skin of his knuckles and the dull ache in his bones.

Right then, he catches himself. Feeling her pulse hammering rapidly against his palm, Bruce quickly releases his grip on her throat and his fury is swiftly smothered. His face softens. Harley lets out a whimper and slides to the ground when her knees buckle.

Countless excuses and apologies pass fleetingly through his mind but none of them make it to his mouth. They never materialise because Bruce knows better; that there is no use in feeding her lies whilst they're in this state since they'll do no good. Yet now he also can't bring himself to spill out the truth.

Because the truth might just break them both.

'_I'm mad because I don't think I can fix you'_

It's the weight of this realisation which bears heavily on Bruce's shoulders and forces him to sink to the ground beside Harley, on the edge of total defeat. She's sobbing into her hands, taking jilted breaths and babbling something incoherent.

It's only when she lifts her head, displaying her wounded expression and her sodden cheeks that Bruce realises she's apologising. She's vowing to make amends for every wrongful thing she's done. She's frantically pledging herself, promising to work harder, to get better.

Promises he knows she can't keep.

Somewhere in her muddled speech, Harley raises her shaky arms towards him and reaches desperately. It's an instinctive motion, akin to a scolded child franticly seeking her mother's forgiveness. But Bruce remains still, apathetic even, and wonders whether choosing not to give in and console her this time is the cruellest thing he's ever done.

* * *

_**Until next time x**_


End file.
